


Declension: a sound, a gun, a ruined thing

by Amand_r



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:30:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn't meant to date Harry, not really, because he was a bit silly looking, but he'd given her white roses and a book of very poorly translated Giacomo da Lentini that she could have done without.  It was a sign that he was <i>trying</i>. He was <i>interested</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Declension: a sound, a gun, a ruined thing

**Author's Note:**

> Fictional reference to the Capponi Library from _Hannibal_. Information about Lucy studying Italian at St. Andrews is from the Dr Who wiki. Translations at the end.
> 
> This was written for the 2009 14valentines challenge. Theme: domestic violence.

Per me si va ne la città dolente,  
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,  
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

 _Through me you pass into the city of woe:  
Through me you pass into eternal pain:  
Through me you pass into the lost children._

\--Dante, Inferno, Canto III (1-3)

Anima, assai ringratiar dei che fosti a tanto honor degnata allora.

 _My soul, you must be very grateful that you were found worthy of such great honor._

\--Francesco Petrarcha, Canzionere

 

 

She didn't shoot him because he beat her. By the time he'd started to beat her, she was already on the Valiant, and there was no where to go, but part of her knew that she'd always sensed that he was _capable_. No, it wasn't because of that, even though her solicitor had said that if she would admit it, then the jury might look more kindly on her.

And it wasn't some sort of 'save the world' mentality. Lucy didn't give a shit about the world, not anymore.

Before she met Harry, she'd been somewhat excellent at Italian, really, St. Andrews had given her top marks and her professors had given her secondary work in translation, weeding through the Capponi on her holidays for loose papers. A Boccaccio here, a poor handwritten translation of a missing canto (like the Holy Grail of Italian literature, and just as impossible to find).

It had already been established by then that she was brilliant and fragile and incapable of taking care of herself. They'd find her passed out in the stacks, hands full of post it notes that read _"guardate a l’angosciosa vita mia/che sospirando la distrugge amore,"_ and others that read lines of things that no one had seen before. Things that they assumed that she had written but that she had heard in her head. It sounded like singing, it sounded like dancing, it sounded like the smell of oranges.

She probably should have stayed there, but they'd thrown her out of the Capponi when she'd graduated, and she'd had a bad record of eating manuscripts. Well, not _eating_ per se, but occasionally tasting them, tongue searching for the molecules of Dante's skin.

She'd returned to Britain and looked for someone else who understood what it meant, really, to see something in the nothing. She hadn't meant to date Harry, not really, because he was a bit silly looking, but he'd given her white roses and a book of very poorly translated Giacomo da Lentini that she could have done without. It was a sign that he was _trying_. He was _interested_.

And then one night over a dinner in the park, he'd put a hand on her knee and told her earnestly about the _drums_.

She'd said yes to him before he'd even asked.

 

Flash forward to present, or later present, really, as Lucy paints the cell walls with lines from Gabriele Rossetti's _Il veggente in solitudine_. Her solicitor's suit is poorly made and dusty almost, shattering little threads in it that make her eyes hurt. Lucy looks elsewhere, at the silver toilet in the corner of her cell.

"Mrs. Saxon," I need to go over a few things with you." Her solicitor makes a face, as if he has much more important things to be doing.

"I want another tablet and a volume of Leopardi's New Cantos," she says, ignoring him. "Make sure that it has _Risorgimento_."

Her solicitor –oh, she can never remember his name—gives her an odd look and hands over the tablet so that she can write down the full title for him. Then he folds the paper back and poises his pen over it. "The thing about your case is that you can't deny that you shot Minister Saxon, urhm, your husband, as it was televised." He scrolls his hand. "What remains then, is the _nature_ of the circumstances. Those on board will swear, a—" he checks his notes—"Martha Jones and family, will swear that you were mentally traumatised." He reaches out and pats her knee and she wonders if she can brush it off, or if this is what men are supposed to do to women.

"Can you describe the nature of your relationship with Minister Saxon, urhm, your husband?"

She looks out the bars into the hallway and flips a strand of hair on her fingers. "He said, when he married me. He said, _Anima, assai ringratiar dei che..._ "

She trails off because it still sounds like drums and smells like charred flesh. It smells like burnt chicken.

"I'm sorry?" Her solicitor says, laying his hand on her thigh again, a comforting gesture that she thinks is pitiful.

She ignores him because she is thinking of the last time Harry had laid a hand on her, and what he had said to her. Because when they had gotten married he had made it part of their wedding vows, just tweaked a bit, but that didn't matter, because he had known how she worshipped Petrarca's _Canzionere_. He had always said it to her with one hand on his heart while he cupped her face. He had always said it like he believed it. He had said it like he wanted her to know that he hadn't understood what it meant until he'd met her.

 _Anima, assai ringratiar dei che fosti a tanto honor degnata allora._

But it was a very crafty lie, actually, she started to understand, when he'd grabbed her by the hand and wrenched her into the console room on the Valiant, the day before she'd killed him, he had wrenched her wrist getting her in there. Lucy hadn't been paying attention to the beatings, though that is not what her solicitor wants her to say.

He wants her to tell them all about Harry's hands, his shoes in her gut, but she can't, not really, because she didn't see it. She didn't see it until he stuck his hand on her heart before his other fist cut her across the cheek, and his mouth had opened and said the words.

 _Anima, assai ringratiar dei che fosti a tanto honor degnata allora._

And then he had laughed.

 

So when he's standing there and Martha's mother lowers the gun, the sound of something is loud in her ears, not the sound of drums, no, that was Harry's inner noise. This is like gears and screeching, and the screaming that the Toclafane made in the darkness outside not-utopia, in the closing darkness that she heard from the open door of the TARDIS. It sounds like the deep resonance of Harry's voice when he leans over her, his hands pressing into the womb that he has battered beyond repair; it sounds like his whispering voice that says, _anima, assai, ringratiar dei_

the metal is clean in her hand. She doesn't notice where she ends and it begins _che fosti a tanto_ something in her twitching. something is dead _degnata allora_ like white noise, like blood coming from the fountains of Florence like his hand in her mouth, his knuckles pressing into her eye _a tanto honor_

" _degnata allora,_ " she finishes aloud in the present. "I shot him," she tells her solicitor. "I shot him because he beat me."

He looks at her then, and she cannot decipher his face because she has never been able to read faces. She could read Harry's, but then, Harry had never been human. Or sane, as it comes out now.

But she'd known that too.

Her solicitor nods, setting his tablet inside his briefcase and closing the lid, doing the clasps hurriedly. Lucy watches him rise from the other side of the pallet, and she smiles when he turns back to her before the guard closes the door. "The Cantos," she lilts, trying to remember how to smile at someone without wishing that they were dead. "Next time, please."

END

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> I: guardate a l’angosciosa vita mia/ che sospirando la distrugge amore  
> E: behold an anguished life/ which love is killing with sighs.  
> (Guido, Cavalcanti, You, Whose Look Pierced through My Heart)


End file.
